


Wraith Hotel

by Salchat



Series: Gatebnb [3]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Adventure, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:20:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24319468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salchat/pseuds/Salchat
Summary: The heat and dust of a desert world lead to frayed tempers and irritation. And then things get worse. Come on team, you love each other really!
Series: Gatebnb [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1694692
Comments: 29
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’d been thinking for a while of posting in installments, and then a couple of you suggested it, so (arg!) here is the first chapter only of my story! I’ll update every day, though. Let me know what you think – a good idea or not?
> 
> This was meant to be just a short snapshot of a mission, as an exploration of family/team dynamics. My husband is working from home at the moment and my three children are unlikely to go back to school until September. Also, I am somebody who very much values their own space. A recipe for disaster? Interestingly no, although things are decidedly not all sweetness and light, nor should they be. Anyway, the short shapshot grew a little…

"How much further? Sheppard! How much further?

"Another coupla miles, McKay," said John, patiently.

"You said that a couple of miles ago. Are we lost? We're lost, aren't we?"

"We're not lost, Rodney."

"We should have brought a Jumper. Why didn't we bring a Jumper? I'm going to run out of sunscreen at this rate!"

John stopped and turned around, his boots crunching and sliding slightly on the gritty sand. Teyla, next to him, stopped too, and Ronon, the rearguard, drew up alongside Rodney.

"We didn't bring a Jumper, because we _all_ agreed not to, because we _all_ agreed that after freezing our asses off on MX2-93P last week and then suffering through the glitchy air-con on Atlantis..."

"Zelenka's fault!" interrupted Rodney.

"...that a pleasant stroll on a nice warm planet was just what we needed!" John finished, with a glare.

"Well, that's an interesting interpretation, Sheppard, because, as I recall, _you_ were the one who was so keen on this happy little jaunt! Ronon just gave his usual non-committal grunt and my response was... let me see now, could it have possibly been just a smidgen, just perhaps slightly edging to the negative?"

"Teyla wanted to walk," said John, defensively.

"I did express some concern, John," Teyla said, apologetically, "that the high temperature might make walking unpleasant. As indeed it has proved to be."

"Okay, fine! It's all my fault! Forgive me for thinking a bit of heat might be nice! Now, d'you wanna stand here bitching about it for another half hour?"

"No, but..."

"Let's get going then!"

John spun round and picked his way down the rocky slope, his team scrabbling and scuffing behind him. _As indeed it has proved to be._ Was that an 'I told you so' from Teyla? And maybe it had been a stupid idea, but John hadn't been able to resist the thought of finally driving the deep ache of cold from his bones. Their last mission had been a nightmare of ice and snow and burning, penetrating wind and then they had arrived back at Atlantis to find the air-con locked into full-on, blasting chill. The sight of Rodney bundled up in most of his clothes with that old orange fleece pulled on over the top, had made a trek through a few miles of semi-desert sound like a good plan. 

Semi-desert. Right now, it seemed like a pretty full-on desert to John. The temperature hadn't been too bad at the Gate, but it seemed to be rising and was a hot, dry heat that evaporated sweat as soon as it formed. Except for Rodney, whose sweat seemed to surpass any drying capacity of the oven-like atmosphere. A wind had started up too, which increased the heat further, and set bits of sand and dust blowing about, getting in your eyes and mouth and clothes. John skidded on a bunch of loose rocks, brought himself up short and decided a break would be good.

"Five minutes," he said, unscrewing his canteen. The water was warm, but he didn't care. He lifted up his shades and then quickly replaced them. The glare turned the baked landscape nearly white, relieved only by the black scribbles of scattered thorn bushes and tangled thickets of burnt-brown foliage. Rodney sat down heavily in a meagre patch of shade, Ronon glanced at John and positioned himself a little higher up the slope while he drank. Teyla drank thirstily from her canteen, poured a little water into her hand and moistened her face and neck. Then she looked out over the arid scene, bringing a hand up to shade her eyes.

"You see anything?"

"I thought I saw movement, in the distance." She shook her head. "Some kind of animal."

"The kind that might have sharp teeth and be hungry?"

"I could not tell. Do you see?" She pointed. "There is a glimmer of water. Animals will be attracted by it."

John squinted into the distance. The ground seemed to ripple and he wasn't sure if he could see the flash of sunlight on water.

"Let's get moving," he said. "Teyla, take point."

Rodney heaved himself to his feet, grumbling and wiping his brow. He avoided John's eyes.

They crossed a dried-up water course, where the ground was corrugated into rock-like ridges. John hovered by Rodney's side, ready to snatch him from the jaws of a broken ankle. On the far side was a dense thorny thicket with no obvious way through, even when Ronon had hacked it around with his huge blade. They had to make a large detour.

"I said we should have gone the other way," mumbled Rodney. "Nice smooth trail, easy walking, but nobody listens to the genius!"

"It was heading in the wrong direction, McKay! And Teyla knows this place."

"It has been many years since my people have traded here, however, and I must admit that this does not seem to be a well-used route."

There was silence. Rodney's eyes flickeringly met with John's but were then fixed firmly on the ground before his feet. They had come the wrong way; the wrong way in the searing, sweating heat. Rodney remained silent.

"So it's okay to be mad at me, but not at Teyla?"

"Do you wish Rodney were angry with me, John?"

"No, of course I don't, it's just..."

"Yes?"

"Nothing."

They trudged on. Sand had got down the inside of John's shirt and was chafing his back. It was in his pants too, gradually working its way into regions where chafing definitely would not be welcome.

"I don't see why they couldn't have the market close to the Gate," said Rodney.

"There is very little shade here, Rodney," Teyla replied, "and the market is in the lee of the only significant hill for miles around, which gives it some protection against the sun and the winds from the east."

"Huh. Well, it'd better be worth it. Littered with Ancient tech, some decent food and somewhere not too awful to sleep."

"There is accommodation, Rodney, as I have said." There was a note of doubt in Teyla's voice which John didn't like. "It is customary for buyers to stay for several days as traders come and go."

"There'd better be showers," said Rodney. He stopped and took out a handkerchief and wiped his face and neck. "I'm sure it's getting hotter. Oh, look, now I've wiped off all the factor one hundred. Which pocket did I put it in?" Rodney began tearing at velcro fastenings.

"Do it on the move, McKay!"

"Alright, I'm coming!"

oOo

They walked on. There was a trail, but it was ill-defined and petered out completely here and there. Teyla had been very young when her mother had brought her to this place, but she had remembered the direction from the Gate and the oppressive heat, because, before that long-ago trip, she had never been to such a hot, dry place before. If they had brought a Jumper they would be at the market site by now. Traders would be setting up their stalls ready for the evening when, traditionally, business began. The market would then continue for several days, some staying only for a day, others lingering until they were sure there were no more sales or bargains to be had. Even now, musicians would be tuning up and there would be the scent of unknown spices and exciting possibilities on the air. They should have brought a Jumper.

"Quit it, Ronon!"

"Not doing nothin'."

There was dappled shade, which was pleasant and the trail was, for the moment, clear, passing between patches of massed thorn bushes. Teyla would have traded the slight decrease in temperature for better visibility.

"Ronon! Oh, great, I've dropped it now! It's full of sand. Thanks a lot!"

"Didn't do nothin'."

"Anything! You didn't do anything!"

"Right."

"No! I mean, yes! Yes, you did, you've been stepping on my heels for the past half hour!"

Teyla looked at John. His face was impassive, his eyes shuttered behind his sunglasses; he was alert to his surroundings but ignoring his team. She turned her eyes back to the trail, and flinched slightly at the glare reflected off the baked-white earth.

"Haven't. You just trip over your own feet, McKay."

"I do not!"

Teyla felt her forehead tense as pain sprang to life behind her eyes. John was still ignoring the bickering. Did he think it was his penance to listen to this childishness because he had made everyone walk? Or did he just expect her to deal with it? A scrabbling thud and a cry came from behind her.

"Ow, dammit, what is your problem?"

Her headache building, Teyla stopped and took a slow breath. She turned around. Rodney was on hands and knees in the dirt, Ronon standing directly behind him, smirking, his thumbs hooked casually in his belt. John pulled Rodney up, one-handed.

"Need another break, McKay?"

"What? No! He pushed me over!"

"You stopped right in front of me."

"Because you keep stepping on my heels!" Rodney brushed the dirt off his hands, wincing. "Look, now my hands are grazed! You'd better hope I don't have to perform a feat of intricate technical brilliance, because if that's what's needed to save all our lives, we're dead! Dead!"

"Calm down, McKay," John drawled.

"You tell him to stop deliberately pissing me off and I'll calm down!"

"It was an accident, right Chewie?"

"Sure." Ronon smirked as soon as John turned away.

Teyla had been leader of her people from a young age. This was due, in part, to her skills of diplomacy and negotiation, her knowledge of survival techniques and also her solid common sense. Her most important attribute as leader, however, had been her strength of mind and her ability to project this iron-hard resolve with her posture, her voice and her expression. John's command style was somewhat different, and although she knew he was capable of great resolution and firmness, he usually preferred a more casual approach. Teyla set her threat level to maximum and met Ronon's eyes directly. The smirk disappeared.

"Perhaps I could attend to Rodney's injuries as we walk, John?" She maintained eye contact with Ronon.

"Yeah, sure, I'll take point."

John set off. Ronon shuffled, cleared his throat and looked away.

"Ronon?" Just his name, and a hint of steel, would be enough.

"Sorry, McKay."

oOo

"What was that?"

"Rodney, I cannot clean your hand if you keep pulling it away!"

"There was something in the bushes, though! I heard it!"

"Just monkey things, McKay," John said, over his shoulder. "Been trailing us for a while."

"Monkey things? What kind of monkey things? Savage, carnivorous monkey things that'll swarm over us like some kind of land-based piranhas? Ow, that stings!"

"Getting eaten by monkeys would probably do more than sting," said John.

"There was a bit of grit stuck, Rodney. It is gone now."

"Oh, ha ha, yes, make fun, why not? Remember those flying monkeys? They weren't so funny, were they? Are you going to bandage them up?"

"They did not fly, they leapt. No, they are only very slightly abraded."

"Are we still on the right track, Teyla?"

"Yes, John, I recall that the trail follows a wide cut in the rock ahead and then we will be nearly there."

"Nearly there? We've been nearly there for hours now!"

"Yeah, well we really are nearly there this time, McKay."

"Maybe next time we can just bring a Jumper? And forego the pleasures of sunstroke, blisters and potentially deadly wildlife?"

"C'mon, Rodney, it wasn't so bad!"

"Oh, really? Because that doesn't look like a safe, well-marked trail to me!"

Ahead, the path led between shoulders of rock, as Teyla had predicted, but the sandy ground was blistered with hollow-topped mounds, like mini volcanoes, which appeared to be oozing thick, red-brown lava.

"That's, um... they're..."

"Bugs," said John, flatly.


	2. Chapter 2

"Teyla?"

"These were not here before. I am not familiar with these creatures." There was a line between Teyla's brows and she smoothed it out with her fingers, her eyes closing briefly.

Ronon took a few steps nearer. He shook his head. "Don't know 'em. Could probably eat 'em, if you had to."

Rodney shuddered.

"They look like ants or maybe termites," said John.

"They look like the reason the trail doesn't go this way any more!" Rodney eyed the seething, shifting masses with revulsion.

"Chewie, have a scout up there. See if there's a way round."

Ronon leapt easily up the side of the cut and Rodney took out an energy bar.

"Don't."

"What?" He held the wrapper between his fingers, about to tear.

"Put it away, Rodney, the bugs might fancy it."

Picturing bugs swarming at the sugary scent, Rodney put the bar away. Ronon skidded down the slope, kicking up a plume of dust.

"They spread out either side. This is the best way."

"The best? What, you think we should go through? I'm not going through there!"

John took a few steps forward, his eyes on the ground.

"I think there's a clear path. We'll just take it slow. Ronon, take point."

John retraced his steps carefully and Ronon began picking his way through the shifting patches of bugs.

"You okay?" John was looking at Teyla with concern as she massaged her forehead.

"Just a slight headache," she said. "The sun is very bright."

"Here." He held out his shades. She put them on.

Ronon had stopped and was looking back.

"You guys coming?"

"McKay, you go next, then Teyla."

Rodney followed Ronon, his eyes flicking between the ground at his feet and the way ahead. A trail of the bugs crossed his path. They were like ants. Ants with big bulbous abdomens, sharply pointed and waving to and fro as they moved, as if they couldn't wait to sting something. Rodney stepped carefully over.

"Getting narrower," Ronon called.

Rodney looked up. The mounds were taller, some shoulder height; and they were closer together, their steep sides grey and uneven like pumice, decorated with the vertical glittering stripes of bug super-highways. The ground was nearly covered and all around him was skittering, scratching, rustling threat. Rodney watched where Ronon trod and spread his arms for balance. His heavy pack made it harder and he had to lean forward to compensate.

"It's better here," Ronon called, from up ahead. "You're nearly through."

The last stretch was the worst. Rodney was tempted to close his eyes and run. So what if he squished a few? There were plenty more! He resisted and stepped carefully, negotiated a small jump to a bug-free patch, and then he was clear. He tottered a few more steps, then put his head down, his hands on his knees. A few deep breaths steadied him. He stood upright and looked back. Teyla was nearly through. Her face was tense and she moved with less than her usual grace. Rodney felt a tickle in the centre of his back and shuddered; it was just a run of sweat, but it felt like tiny scuttling legs. John was close behind Teyla.

Teyla readied herself for the awkward little leap, but her balance faltered and she swayed. John's arm shot out and he leaned forward to steady her. Rodney's breath hitched. Had John's pack touched the mound? Teyla regained her balance and shifted her footing slightly.

"Okay?"

"Yes." She made the leap and with another couple of steps was through.

Then John let out a yell, took the last few metres in a wild, leaping dash and began clawing at his pack.

"Get it off!" He yelled again and arched his back. Ronon unclipped the pack and hurled it away. John thrust his P90 at Ronon, ripped off his vest in a frenzy of jerks and cries and flung it down, followed by his t-shirt.

"Keep still, John!" Teyla ordered.

"Don't touch them!"

"Hold still, Sheppard." Ronon had taken his shirt off and, with quick, hard, flicks, used it to swipe the bugs away.

"Are they gone?" John screwed his head over his shoulder, breathing hard, his face contorted.

"Yeah, think so. You got a few stings, though."

"No kidding." He clamped his jaw tightly and moaned. His upper back and shoulders were dotted with angry red lumps, already swelling up.

"Hey, look at your pack!"

John's pack was moving; engulfed in tiny, angry bugs, it travelled slowly but steadily back between the contorted mounds.

oOo

John swore. He watched his pack, a swarming mass of movement, disappear behind the nearest bug hill and swore again.

"Are you in great pain, John?"

"They looked like those bullet ants, and the sting of a bullet ant is, well, like a bullet!"

"It's not that bad, Rodney!" John's eyes watered and he forced himself to breathe in and out slowly.

"I am sorry, John, it is my fault," Teyla said.

"Doesn't matter. Let's just get away from here." He picked up his t-shirt, gingerly, shook it hard and inspected it.

"You need some stuff on those bites! Antiseptic! Antihistamine!"

"Yeah, not here. Those things might decide they like the taste of Lieutenant Colonels." He slid his t-shirt back on, biting his lip, hard, refusing to meet the gazes of his concerned team.

They walked a little way then stopped, briefly, and John endured Rodney's tentative efforts at first-aid. He couldn't bear the weight of his vest on top of the jabbing agony and Ronon silently put the sling of John's P90 around his own neck and took point. The rocky shoulders of land fell around them until they emerged onto the bank of a narrow river, bordered by wizened trees and thorn bushes. Over the river the land sloped gradually upward toward a trail, on which animals and people were moving toward a huge, thorn-bound enclosure. The scent of woodsmoke, spice and animal dung drifted on the air and relaxed calls and laughter could be heard above the gentle trickling of the river.

Ronon scrambled down the bank, splashed through the shallow water and looked back. John followed, awkwardly. He could lie down in the cool water and let it wash away the heat and the pain, but instead he joined Ronon, hearing Teyla and Rodney following behind. Other travellers glanced at them curiously as they joined the trail and when they reached the edge of the thornbush stockade, they were hailed.

"Hey, you four!"

The old man sat on a stool to one side of the entrance. An accusing finger pointed at them and he turned his hand and crooked it, imperiously.

"Yes, you!"

He was wrapped in a bright red blanket, held tightly around him despite the heat, as well as a thick woollen hat, below which trailed a few wisps of white hair, contrasting with his dark, deeply-lined skin. His intent gaze drew them in and John found himself and his team the subject of a sharply assessing scrutiny.

"You came on the old route. Why?" he barked.

John cleared his throat. "We didn't know it had changed. My friend came here years ago. Um... My name's..."

"You came through the ksatza hills?" He interrupted. "Never mind, I can see that you did. Embele!"

John wondered if they'd just been cursed or something, but then a boy ran up and skidded to a halt in from of the old man.

"Embele, find these people some rooms."

"Yes, sir!" Embele grinned and cast the team a curious look.

"Quick, now!"

The boy gestured toward the gap in the thorn hedging. "Come! This way!"

"Wait, hold on! I'm..."

"Never mind that, boy! Go with Embele, now!"

A smothered laugh came from Ronon. They followed Embele into the enclosure and through the close-packed stalls. Calls and greetings rang in the air as traders set out their wares, but John felt detached from the scene, isolated in a hazy world of increasing pain. He hoped it wasn't far to the tents or huts, or even just a blanket on the ground would do.

oOo

A long, low hill rose abruptly on the far side of the enclosure. As they came into its shadow, the air cooled and Teyla was grateful for the respite from the sun's piercing glare. Her head throbbed and tension radiated from her scalp, down the back of her neck and between her shoulder blades.

"No!" Ronon's harsh exclamation ramped up the pain another notch. "I'm not sleeping in there!" He turned on Teyla. "You knew about this!"

"Comfortable rooms, sirs, come!" Embele encouraged.

"Yes, Ronon, I knew." The edge of her vision sparkled and shimmered.

"And you didn't say anything?"

"There is nowhere else to stay!"

"Please, it is nice! Clean rooms, soft beds!" Embele smiled determinedly, his eyes moving between Teyla and Ronon. Rodney whipped out a scanner and stepped into the dark narrow entrance. John stood, hunched over, his hands each gripping the opposite elbow.

"You stayed here? Your people slept in this slaughterhouse?"

"It is very old, Ronon."

"Makes no difference! I'm not going in!" He folded his arms and planted his feet firmly on the gritty sand.

Rodney bobbed in and out of the entrance, eyes bouncing between his scanner and the structure itself.

"This has been here thousands of years," he said. "It's a dead husk. Practically fossilized."

Ronon glared at Rodney and then returned his dark, accusing eyes to Teyla's face.

"Look, guys, can we just go in?" John's voice was strained, his fists now clenched by his sides. "I don't care if there's a Wraith queen setting out the silverware as long as there're beds."

Her companions’ voices grated on Teyla's sensitive nerves. She needed peace, a cool drink and a place to simply breathe, deeply and slowly. She closed her eyes.

"Ronon, that's an order." The words were hard, forced out through John's tightened lips. Teyla opened her eyes and followed him through the entrance, Rodney alongside her, still tapping at his screen. There was a pause and then Ronon's dragging footsteps followed too.

They were shown to a large, irregularly-shaped room which had four curving alcoves, each containing a bed. John shed his t-shirt and collapsed, face down on one of the beds.

"Thank you," Teyla said to their guide. "This will be perfect."

Embele left, smiling. Ronon and Rodney were in the corridor outside. A wooden door had been shaped to fit the rounded entrance; it would probably lock.

"They won't still be there!" Rodney sounded exasperated. A low-voiced rumble responded. "No!" Rodney continued. "No, it's been thousands of years! What, you think there'll still be bays full of the culled?"

Teyla slid off her pack, wincing as she bent down to set it against the wall of an alcove. She took off her boots, climbed carefully onto the bed, crossed her legs and closed her eyes.

Rodney's strident tones began again; her breath hitched and she flinched.

"Oh, yes, because Wraith ships are such happy places for the rest of us! The good times we've had, fastened in a pod, locked in a cell, all those fun, near-death experiences! You should just... just get over yourself!"

Teyla rose, slowly, and, trying to keep her head perfectly level, left her alcove and stood at the threshold of John's.

"They culled my whole planet, McKay!"

"John!" No response.

"And I'm sorry about that, I am, but this is now, not then and there are no Wraith here and we need a place to sleep!"

"John!"

"Yeah?"

"I'll sleep outside!"

"You can't sleep outside! You saw that thorn hedge! That's not for keeping out fluffy bunnies!"

"John, you need to stop them. We will be asked to leave!"

"'n a minute."

"I've slept in worse places."

"But you won't sleep here, where it's perfectly safe!"

Teyla put one hand against the wall and pressed the other over her eyes.

"John, now, please!"

He stirred and half-heartedly raised his head. "Can't you just tell 'em to quit it?".

"I should not have to!"

"Huh?"

"I should not always have to be the peacemaker! I am not their mother, nor yours!"

"No," he said, his face once more buried in the bedding. "You sound more like my ex-wife."

Teyla turned with a swiftness that drove a spike into her skull, and stalked from the room, swept past her arguing teammates and simply carried on walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Eos1969 for the hive hotel idea!


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm going, McKay! Tell Sheppard I'll find somewhere outside."

"Ronon, come back! Teyla? Teyla, where are you going?"

"Elsewhere!"

Ronon turned at the brittle tone of Teyla's voice, to see her disappear around the curve of the corridor, her shoulders stiff, her gait radiating disapproval and hurt. "She's real mad," he said.

"Ha, yes, I'd say so." Rodney swallowed, his mouth drooping, his eyes anxious. "With us?"

"I'd say so."

"And Sheppard!" Rodney sounded hopeful.

Ronon glanced through the door at John's inert form. He shrugged.

"So, er... are you really going to camp out in the desert with all the monkeys and bugs and probably sabre-toothed carnivorous wildlife?"

Ronon sighed heavily, worked the fingers of one hand amongst his dreads and massaged his tense scalp. He looked at their accommodation and then up and down the corridor. It was unmistakably Wraith. "Dunno. Might just stay up all night."

"Oh. Well, uh, let's go take a look around the market. Get this mission back on track!"

"Ancient stuff."

"Well, yes, but food first. Definitely and urgently, food first! Then we can eat while we browse."

"Cool."

"And you can carry all the ZPMs!"

Ronon shrugged, accepting the role of porter.

"What about Sheppard?"

John still lay face-down, on the bed.

"He's fine," said Ronon. "Let's go."

oOo

Teyla had gone and he couldn't hear Ronon and Rodney anymore. Teyla was right to go; they all were. Stupid decision, not to bring a Jumper, stupid stinging bugs, stupid John. He lay, rigid and motionless, but for the constant curling and uncurling of his fingers, gripping and releasing the bedding as if they were trying to crawl away from his pain. Had Ronon taken off, back to the Gate? Had Rodney gone after him? Had Teyla? It hurt to breathe, the stretch of swollen skin over his back and shoulders a constant rise and fall of searing, building heat. They could be in trouble, scattered and separate; vulnerable, without back-up, without each other. He should get up. He couldn't get up. He was pinned down by piercing darts which burrowed deep inside him, deeper and deeper until his lungs ached to scream, but to draw breath was agony. An intermittent high-pitched keening began; that and the pain would drive him mad.

The bed shifted and his breathing sped up at the jolt, the whimpering increasing too.

"Shhh!"

There was a wet slap and pressure on his back. He buried his face in the mattress and released his pent-up scream. And then, when his lungs were screamed out he took another breath to howl again, but instead stopped breathing entirely, stunned. The pain was gone. John relaxed and let the air inside him float away, groaning a long deep sound of sweet relief and ease.

Someone chuckled softly and the cool pressure moved over his back. He allowed himself to drift, boneless and content, exhausted from pain, his tense, cramped muscles unknotting and smoothing out into deep relaxation.

"Teyla?" he mumbled, into the bedding. No, the hands were way too big, and he thought it would be a while before Teyla wanted to do anything nice for him.

"Rodney?" The rumbling laugh was too deep for Rodney.

"Ronon. Thanks. 's good."

A hand curled over the top of John's shoulder and, through drowsy eyes, he caught a flicker of black skin. Tension slammed back into his body. his head twisted round and he fought to get his hands beneath him, but caught only a fleeting glimpse of a total stranger before a large hand in the middle of his back pressed him down into the mattress.

"Be still!"

"What? No! Why? You don't have to...!"

"Be still," the stranger said again. "The pain is gone, yes?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's gone, but..."

"Let me do this, or it will return!"

The hands kept moving smoothly over his back and shoulders and every so often there was another wet slap and coolness spread over his abused skin. John screwed his head round for another glance at the stranger. The guy was huge; maybe not taller than Ronon, but broader, and he wasn't overdressed for the occasion, either, his biceps and shoulder muscles bulging as he worked whatever the cool, wet stuff was into John's skin. This would look really weird if the team came back. First that old guy at the gate called him 'boy' and now he's getting a massage from...

"My name is J'ksande." The man answered John's unspoken question. "The gatekeeper told me there was a guest that had been stung by the ksatza bugs, so I came."

"Oh. Thanks. Um... I'm John. John Sheppard. So, uh, are you a doctor?"

"I know the old remedies," said J'ksande. "There is not much call for this one. Most people know to avoid the ksatza hills."

"Huh, yeah, I guess we know that now, too."

"Where are your friends?" J'ksande asked, accusingly. "You should not have been left alone!"

"'s not their fault," said John. "Ronon was a Runner, so the whole hive hotel thing kinda freaked him out. Teyla had a migraine... a headache. And I... uh... I said some mean stuff."

"Pain makes sharp words."

"Hm. Yeah, I guess."

"There. It is done. You should sleep now. I will leave some more for later. Use it tonight and tomorrow morning."

John squinted at the earthenware jar on the nightstand. "What's in that stuff?"

There was a deep, throaty laugh. "You do not want to know! It works and that is enough! Rest, now."

"I should get up 'n' find my friends."

"You must rest or the pain will come again."

"But my team..."

"I will have them found. Sleep."

John gave in, guessing he'd be of little use even if he forced his unwilling limbs into action. He closed his eyes and breathed, a passive but grateful observer of the peace in his overtaxed nerves, and the ease of his deep, even breaths.

oOo

A child ran out in front of Teyla and she had to stop suddenly.

"My apologies! Tillesh, say sorry to the lady!"

The little girl gazed up at Teyla and then back at her mother, her mouth pursed in defiance.

"Tillesh! Now!"

A naughty grin appeared. "Sowwy!" She ran out of her mother's arms and hurtled past Teyla. The young woman followed her, with a further, embarrassed apology.

Teyla walked on. Had her own mother been so young when she had brought Teyla here? She had been afraid, at first, of the dreadful place, but her mother had said, "We will use this ship in defiance of the Wraith! And, in further defiance, we will enjoy ourselves here!" The memory usually brought her pleasure, but tears welled in her eyes and spilled over. She clasped the back of her neck where her muscles were rigid with tension. She would find a quiet place and meditate away the pain.

Why had John said that? And why was it that she was always forced into the nurturing, guiding, disciplining role? The mother of the team, just because she was a woman. Charin's face appeared in her mind, gently rebuking; Charin's wise, kind face that had seen a long lifetime of loves and losses, as well as a myriad of those little arguments and petty wrongs that make up part of ordinary life, whenever people live together and try their best to get along. 

John had, of course, lashed out because he was in pain, and words that Charin, in her wisdom, had spoken in long-ago guidance echoed in Teyla's ears: that, in life, very often one found what one was looking for. Was it true that she had found a strong maternal role because that was what she had sought? It was undoubtedly true that she was, usually, happy in John's team, and it was also true that her three teammates each, she believed, had some kind of deficit to make up in terms of mothering. John, whose mother had died when he was young, Rodney, who had struggled to find acceptance as a child, either from his peers or, in some measure, his parents, and Ronon, who rarely spoke about his family and who must have joined the military at an extremely young age to have achieved the rank of Specialist by the time his world was culled.

Teyla entered a large open area, dotted with comfortable chairs, couches and tables. There was nobody else there and she curled up on one of the couches, her arms around her throbbing head. She had chosen to stay on Atlantis and join John's team because of her conscious vocation, the need to fight to protect her people from the Wraith. Perhaps it was true that, less consciously, she had herself chosen to take on the maternal role in her team. Of her four children, then, if that was how she would occasionally think of them, Torren was by far the easiest.

oOo

"So, I'll understand if you want to punch me later. When no-one's looking, preferably."

"Huh?"

"What I said back there, about getting over yourself? That was, I suppose, unacceptable and, just so you know, if you felt like you needed to punch me, that I'd be okay with that. Well, no, not okay, because I'm pretty sure you'd break my jaw, but, you know, I'd take it. Like a man!"

Rodney looked Ronon square in the face and lifted the jaw in question.

Ronon stared at him.

"Forget it."

"What? Why?"

"I was being a dick." Ronon sauntered toward a stall selling hot sausages.

"But, you were right! I mean, I was right, but you were right too!"

"Those, please." Ronon pointed to two thick sausages, one at least a foot and a half long, the other slightly less.

"Are you going to sleep there, then? In our room?"

"I guess."

How can you...? But you said... I don't understand!"

"It's dead, right? The ship?"

"Yes! Dead! No more! Ceased to be! Expired and gone to meet its maker! And so on! I said that, didn't I?"

The vendor slapped the sausages into large flatbreads and rolled them up.

"I shouldn't be afraid of something dead." Ronon took both of the sausages. 

Rodney's mouth watered. 

"And I trust Sheppard. And you. And Teyla."

The sausages glistened with savoury oiliness in their soft wrappings. Rodney's stomach made a lurch toward them.

"And sometimes you gotta take one for the team," said Ronon.

"Yes. Fine. Can we eat?" They'd be so meaty and juicy and bready and... a thought occurred. "So, 'taking one for the team'? Does that include letting me have the biggest sausage?"

Ronon raised one eyebrow and looked at him sidelong. "No."

N.A: Thank you for reading! I’ve had helpful comments about posting in instalments here and on AO3, so I’ll write up my thoughts and put them in my profile – they’d get in the way here! Just to reassure you, though – it won’t change the way I write! Except I did just revise this chapter slightly, but I think that was only an improvement, particularly a certain TV reference!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I’ve had helpful comments about posting in instalments here and on ffn, so I’ve written up my thoughts and put them in my profile on ffn – they wouldn't fit in my profile here. Just to reassure you, though – it won’t change the way I write! Except I did just revise this chapter slightly, but I think that was only an improvement, particularly a certain TV reference!


	4. Chapter 4

There was a high-pitched, drawn-out scream. John groaned and covered his ears, but it didn't shut out the sound, which was augmented by a stampede of thudding and loud, wordless cries.

"What the hell?"

He rolled over and found himself looking up at the organic ceiling of a Wraith ship. John surged to his feet, heart pounding, eyes wide. His panicked gaze took in the brightly coloured soft furnishings, the comfortable couches, the low table with its pitcher of water and bowl of fruit. His legs folded with relief, and he bounced slightly as he sat down on the side of his bed, the rush and fizz of adrenaline slowly fading.

A thunder of approaching footsteps jerked his gaze to the doorway, where there was a jumbled flash of bodies, arms, legs and yelling, grinning faces before the passage was empty once more. Why was the door open? John got up, grumbling. Kids running up and down, door wide open; you put up a ring of thorn bushes and everyone thinks it's Disneyland? He gripped the heavy wooden door prior to allowing its slam to express his mood.

"You feel better, sir?"

The boy crouched, flat-footed by the wall just outside the door, a scatter of small gaming pieces before him. He wore bright orange shorts and a raggedly cut off t-shirt of the same colour. John's eyes were drawn to his belt, which had a small holster attached.

"Yeah, thanks. Embele, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir!"

"The name's John," he said vaguely, rubbing his hair. It felt gritty and itchy. The skin where he had been stung was tight and stiff, but otherwise okay.

"Uh... that doctor guy. Ju..."

"J'ksande."

"Yeah. He said he'd find my friends."

Yes, John! Your lady is sleeping in the big lounge and your men are in the market. I found them!"

"Oh. Cool. Er, thanks. Is that a weapon?" The kid was maybe twelve, thirteen?

Embele grinned, flicked open his holster and withdrew a small pistol. He handled it with care and efficiency, angling it away from them both, and keeping his finger away from the trigger. "It is for the bahzeeks. You tell me if you see one!"

"Bahzeeks?"

"They creep in at night, when it is cold outside? This place is old, so there are holes," he explained. "You cannot stop them coming in, but this will stop them causing trouble!" He slid his weapon back into the holster.

"So, there're bathrooms here somewhere, right?"

"Yes, of course!" Embele jumped up and ushered John back into the room. He trotted past the alcoves and lifted a wall hanging, patterned in red and orange and black.

"Oh, right, thanks."

Ensuring that the door was this time firmly shut, John showered and then wrapped himself in a large towel, reflecting that he much preferred the type of Wraith ship where there was plenty of hot water and acres of fluffy towels, to the type where you were thrown in a cell or had to kneel before a queen, or other things happened that were equally day-spoiling. John looked around for his pack, and then remembered that it was probably now forming part of a desirable ksatza bug residence. He shrugged philosophically and sorted through Rodney's pack for clean clothes, pulling on a t-shirt which hung in baggy drapes. Rodney wasn't much different in height to John, but his physique was generally broader, which was all very well with t-shirts, but John would have to make sure he cinched the belt in tight, or the pants would end up around his ankles, and no doubt the underwear would chase the downward trend. And that would be just great for Atlantis' diplomatic relations with the diverse cultures temporarily populating the marketplace. Or, hey, maybe it really would; some of these cultures were pretty strange. Teyla would know.

Teyla. John's face heated and his shoulders drew in with embarrassment and, yes, that was shame there too. He'd have to apologise. And it wasn't so much the thought of the apology that made him cringe further with embarrassment, but the extra talking that would, no doubt, be required. He could have a look round the market first. Get something to eat, find Ronon and Rodney, maybe even buy a peace offering for Teyla. No. He sighed. He'd find Teyla. He owed her an apology, and now was the time. He put on his vest, his shoulders feeling sensitive and a little tickly, but not sore. Where was his P90? Ronon must still have it. Good. Because an open door and firearms left lying about? That would be not good. Nicely black and white: good or not good. Unlike messy emotions and apologies. John put on his boots, carefully laced them up and then fiddled with his damp hair, flattening it down a bit, here and there. He straightened his bed. And Teyla's. Teyla had been a Wraith queen once. John chewed his lip and looked around at the Wraith-grown structure, overlaid with incongruously human cosiness. Time to kneel before the queen, then.

oOo

It was a market, like any other. Stalls, crowds, haggling, assorted criminal enterprises; nothing too serious, just the usual scams and pickpockets. Ronon had avoided markets, when he was running, but if he'd got wind of one like this, he'd Gate in, if he could, a day or so after it'd finished and sort through whatever was left; scraps of food, clothes left behind, stray bits of currency. He'd had to fight for his prizes more than once.

McKay flicked through a stall of broken tech, clicking his tongue impatiently. "This is all junk," he announced, loudly. The stallholder narrowed his eyes. "Show me the good stuff!" he demanded.

"This is all I have, sir." The vendor's pursed lips clamped angrily shut.

"Really?" The word was laden with scorn and disbelief. "Next!" Rodney marched on down the row of stalls and Ronon gifted the stallholder with a smirk, which the man could choose to take as commiseration or derision.

Following McKay around was always good value in terms of entertainment; you could watch him pissing people off, or you could piss him off yourself. It was a choice between enjoying the rush of snapping fingers and scathing vitriol directed at others, or carefully building, layer upon layer, a subtly mounting tide of small irritations that would eventually explode into spluttering, frustrated rage; directed at himself, yes, but that was part of the fun, to increase the impotent fury by remaining passive under its onslaught. 

In a busy market, though, the first path was the easiest. Ronon leant, arms folded, against the solid structure of the next miscellaneous junk stall, while Rodney tutted and tapped and sighed at the wares displayed, and the stallholder anxiously regarded his other customers, who showed signs of being infected by Rodney's disappointment.

"Please, sir, look! This is not all!" He squatted behind the counter and reappeared with a wooden crate in his arms, which he dumped in front of Rodney. "See, all the best things, reserved for discerning customers!"

"Oh. Yes, maybe." Rodney began sorting through the box, emitting sounds of grudging tolerance.

Of course, there was always the other game; the game that had to be played wherever goods and money changed hands, wherever there were those whose targets were not the wares displayed, but the people who sought them. Ronon could read the subtleties in the faces and postures in the crowd; the subtleties to which McKay was totally oblivious. Present him with the complexities of unknown technology, and he would catch its beat and feel its rhythm and make it dance to his tune; put him in the middle of a crowded market and he was blinkered and blind. He didn't see the eyes that judged and totalled up the cost of his apparel, he missed the close-headed instruction of one to another that would mark him as a target. He missed the women that judged, the men that eyed, the boys that laughed, and maybe just enjoyed as Ronon did, but maybe not. Most of this lot were just buyers and sellers, friendly enough. It was the others that Ronon watched for, and made it a game, to see them off and to do it without McKay's knowledge.

Ronon strolled round behind McKay and ushered away a small child who was gently but determinedly investigating Rodney's pants pockets. He loomed impressively while Rodney, having made his selection, bargained with the stallholder. Ronon’s raised eyebrow led to a further concession, the price was agreed, Rodney moved busily on.

"Personal shield!" remarked Rodney. "Depleted, but the parts are still good. And a couple of little bits that look promising. One of them flickered while it was in the box, did you see? Maybe Sheppard can get it to play!"

Ronon allowed Rodney to bustle ahead of him a few places, just to see if there was any interest. A gang of young men caught his eye. Ronon knew the type; Gated from world to world looking for easy targets in this kind of place. Easy targets. Huh. Not on his watch. A young woman approached Rodney and smiled prettily, beckoning him toward a tented booth. McKay flapped and gaped and she had an arm on his and was drawing him in. Ronon moved up close behind him. He laid a hand on Rodney's shoulder, bent down and whispered, softly but audibly, "We gonna check out the leather stall now, pick you out something hot?"

Rodney jumped and squeaked.

The girl's face fell and she retreated. Ronon steered Rodney on.

"What? Why did you have to say that! She'll think... she'll think... that I'm... that you're...!"

Ronon grinned. "Yeah, she will!" He shrugged. "I promised Keller I'd protect you!"

"Oh, come on, I don't need protection!"

Ronon shrugged again, smiled and made no comment.

"On we go then," said Rodney, resignedly. "Lover boy!"

oOo

Her hunger woke her; hunger and urgent thirst, and she knew before she opened her eyes, before she yawned and stretched out her languorous muscles and sat up, that her headache had gone. That the blinding, sickening pain had seeped away leaving her heavy yet floating, rested yet sleepy, and definitely, keenly, hungry.

There were drinks on a side table; a pitcher of water and one of juice, both set in tubs of rapidly melting ice. She poured some juice into a glass, topped it up with water, drained the whole lot and then refilled it. She contemplated the fruit bowl, but her palate, washed and fresh from the fruit juice, craved a contrast. Something spicy and juicy, savoury and fatty, so that the grease would run down her chin. Teyla smiled, amused at her carnivorous tendencies that emerged only after a truly shattering headache.

The soft sound of a footstep behind her made her turn, suddenly, spilling some of her drink.

"John." She smiled and gestured with her glass. "There is water here and juice. Would you like some?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

She filled a glass, half and half, as she had done for herself. John took it from her, their fingers brushing together. He stared down at his glass but didn't drink. There were thoughts inside that downcast face, thoughts looking for words to release them.

"You are no longer in pain? From the stings?"

"No, a kind of doctor guy came and, um... gave me some stuff." His eyes met hers and then returned to his drink. "Your headache's gone?"

"I slept and now I am well. Thank you."

John drank suddenly and then choked and coughed, and kept coughing, waving away Teyla's concern and sitting down on a nearby couch. He put his drink down and coughed some more. Teyla sat opposite him and waited. Finally he stopped and croaked, "That didn't go too well."

She smiled. He picked up his drink again, took a careful sip and studied the glass once more, rolling it between both hands.

"Look, Teyla, I'm sorry. For what I said. I should never had said that. And for expecting you to deal with Ronon and Rodney."

"John..."

"No, please." His lips pressed together, twisted, opened, he took a breath, then spoke. "I know sometimes I ignore stuff and maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should keep the guys in line more and not leave it to you. And I dunno, walking here seemed like a good idea, you know? But, I guess I didn't listen to you and I should've, and maybe that means I don't respect your opinion enough, so..."

"John!" Hearing her team leader entering a descending spiral of self-recrimination was disturbing; his occasional fits of brooding silence or deflective flippancy had hinted at such, but for him to express such thoughts aloud was not usual. Teyla was glad of the opportunity to head him off. "I do not expect you to be perfect, and neither should you! And I am sure, I know, that you have great respect for my opinion!"

"Well, yeah I do, but..."

"No. Listen to me, now." Teyla paused and gathered her thoughts. 

John stared at her, as Torren sometimes watched her, looking for her guidance, reflecting her smiles or her frowns. 

"The four of us are more than a team," she said. "We have spent so long together, been through so much together, that we are as family."

John nodded agreement.

"Families, I believe, are like beautiful music."

John frowned.

"There is harmony and there is dissonance, and the harmony would be of lesser beauty were it not for the contrasting discord."

He stared blankly at the floor, his frown flickering on and off, his lower lip drawn in to be chewed and then pushed out again.

"We are normal people, and we would never expect, or desire constant bland agreement; our love for each other runs so deeply that we can challenge and tease, be irritated and tested, and all of these things are part of our strength, and, for some of us, a way of displaying our love."

He smiled, sheepishly. "Ronon and Rodney love each other a lot, then."

"Yes, they do."

"So, next time, what? I just enjoy the Hallmark moment?"

"No, I will show my disapproval, you will tell them to 'quit it,' and we will enjoy perhaps ten minutes' peace, until one or other begin again, or perhaps you yourself will be the culprit."

"Not you, though."

"I can show my love by saying, 'I love you'. I love you, John."

He sniggered, embarrassed. "You show it by beating us with sticks too, though."

"Indeed I do."

John drained his glass, and then raised it to her. "See, I can drink without choking."

She smiled. "Torren's sippy cup is safe."

He grinned. "Hungry?"

"Very."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to warn you, I might be a bit late posting tomorrow, because my husband will be working from home and he's on the PC from early til late! I'll squeeze my way in at some point, though! Thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

"Mortally allergic, do you know what that means? I could die if just the tiniest drop of juice passes my lips! So, I think you'll understand that I want to be sure, very sure, that you're not thinking, (despite my making it crystal clear that this is a matter of life and death), 'Oh, it can't be that bad, my usual citrus-laden recipe will be just fine'!" Rodney paused for breath. 

Korokéa, of 'Korokéa's Fruit Ices' regarded him with weary patience. "Perhaps you could explain what citrus is," she said calmly, setting down her cleavers and wiping her hands on her apron.

Rodney folded his arms and began to lecture the ignorant. "Citrus fruit are hesperidia, that is, a specialised berry, globose to elongated with a leathery rind enclosing a central, segmented section filled with juice vesicles." He took another breath, prior to expounding further, but Ronon's long arm reached past him and handed the stallholder a piece of paper.

"Oh, I see. Yes, right you are then!"

She passed the paper back to Ronon, then reached below the counter and tipped a generous portion of ice-chunks out of a bucket and onto her chopping board. In a flurry of cleavers, the ice was reduced from chunks to chips to slush.

"What? What's that?"

Rodney snatched the paper. It was hand-drawn, and showed various citrus fruits, both whole and in cross-section. Each had the precision of a scientific diagram, but they were brought glowingly to three-dimensional life by delicate shading, and Rodney shuddered in revulsion even as he appreciated the drawings' artistic merit.  
"Where did you get this?" he asked.

Korokéa added pinches of scented spice and continued chopping.

Ronon twitched the paper out of his hand, folded it carefully and slipped it back into a pocket.

"Keller gave it to me."

"Oh. Wait, she drew that?"

The ice was deftly scooped into two glasses, which were topped up with splashes of red and purple juice.

Ronon shrugged.

"That's... that's kind of, er, I suppose that's 'sweet', isn't it? Is that the kind of thing that's regarded as 'sweet' in a, in a relationship such as ours?"

"I think she just doesn't want you to die."

"No, it definitely comes under the heading of 'sweet'. That means I have to do something sweet in return, doesn't it? God, and I am so not a sweet person. Sour all the way, that's me."

The drinks were finished with a garnish of bright green herb.

"There you are! Not even the tiniest drop of your dreaded citrus!"

"Where do you get the ice?" asked Rodney.

"From home," said Korokéa. "Through the Great Ring. Look!" She turned and lifted the sheet of canvas which hid the rear compartment of her booth. A huge block of ice stood on a wooden pallet and on the edge of the pallet stood a penguin-like creature, easily a metre and a half tall. It regarded Rodney with the blankly hostile eyes of a shark and let out a harshly grating shriek, by way of underlining its pleasant personality.

"And what, exactly, is that?" he asked, with distaste.

"That's Wéwé," said the woman. "Valuable stuff, ice, in a place like this." She wagged a finger with sinister assurance. "Anyone comes sniffing after my ice, you just wait and see what's left after Wéwé's shown them the error of their ways!"

"I'd rather not!" said Rodney.

She laughed. "Drink up, then!"

oOo

"This is good!" John wiped his chin on his hand and licked at the side of his flatbread, where spicy, meaty juice was overflowing.

Teyla smiled and nodded around her kebab, fighting to keep the meaty, salady contents within their rapidly disintegrating wrapper.

They walked as they ate, the scope and variety of the market coming as a surprise to John. He hadn't realised how blinkered by pain he'd been when they had arrived. Teyla couldn't have taken in much of the scene either.

"Was it this big when you came before?"

She chewed and swallowed. "It seemed huge, but I was very small. I think it is bigger now."

They passed a stall where various beauty treatments were in progress. A woman was having decorative patterns shaved into her close-cropped hair, an old man was having his toenails painted and a group of girls were giggling over a choice of tattoos.

"Tattoo? Piercing, sir, miss? All clean tools!"

"No, thanks."

They moved on. There was a baker's stall, the glow of a temporary oven bright in the slowly fading light. John bought some spicy donut-things which were given to him in a woven reed bag. Teyla bought a large, cream-filled pastry and ate it with an expression of bliss.

"I don't think I've ever seen you eat so much!"

"I love market food," she said. "The variety, the ease. I overindulged when I was here as a child and was quite ill afterward!"

"Don't worry! I'll stop you if it looks like you're going too far. Hm, iced drinks. Sounds like a plan."

John eyed the drinks preparation in progress at 'Korokéa's Fruit Ices'. The double cleaver technique was impressive, the iced concoction served with a flourish. "I'll have a blue one, please! Teyla?"

"The green looks interesting," she said.

"A flashberry and a sendita coming up!"

"Nice penguin," said John.

"Penguin?" Korokéa turned to regard her companion, whose head and upper body were projecting through a hole in the canvas. "Oh, yes. Wéwé. She's a loyal friend. And a fierce fighter. Friend of a lifetime, really.

"I've got three of those," said John. "Hey, Wéwé!" He waved.

The bird bobbed her head and chirped creakily.

"Lucky man," remarked Korokéa, adding the brightly coloured juice and a sprig of green to each drink.

"I know," said John.

"No, I mean, you're lucky she didn't take your wave as a challenge," said Korokéa. "You could have lost an arm," she added, brightly.

oOo

Keller would be mad. Real mad. Ronon wasn't quite sure what the outcome of that madness would be in terms of his future medical treatment. He knew Earth doctors had the whole 'First, do no harm' thing, but there was probably a whole lot of discomfort and embarrassment that she could deal out before you got to actual harm.

"No! No, I need to keep pressure on or I'll bleed out and, correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm guessing you don't have the facilities for blood-typing and transfusion here!" McKay's voice snapped with pain and he pulled away from the doctor-guy, the fingers of one hand pressing down hard on a handkerchief bunched up on his other palm.

"Please, let me see. There would be much more blood already if the wound was serious."

"Of course it's serious! Did you see that blade? How much blood do you need?" Rodney groaned. "I can feel my blood pressure crashing! No! Ow!" He pulled his hand away once more.

"What the hell is going on in here?" John stood at the entrance of the tent, Teyla's concerned face at his shoulder.

"McKay got cut," said Ronon.

"That thing! That innocent-looking piece of Ancient crap that flashed its lights at me! 'Buy me, get stabbed in the hand!' Little..." Rodney subsided into moans, pressing his hand tightly.

John picked up the small, decorative bauble. "Nasty!" he said, regarding the sharp blade. "Does it do anything else?"

"No! What else do you want it to do? Electrocute me? Poison me? Oh, God, the blade was poisoned, wasn't it? Some deadly Ancient poison and there's no cure!"

"What d'you think, Ronon?"

"I think you put it in with your valuables and it stabs thieves."

John nodded. "It'd do that alright."

"Stupid Ancients! Ow!"

"You need to let me see!"

"Yeah, Rodney, let J'ksande do his stuff."

"You know this quack?"

"Rodney, how about you don't insult the local medic?"

"Medic? Have you looked at this place?" Dried herbs hung from the centre pole, a crude wooden bench held jars of sinister unguents. There were a couple of wooden stools, but Ronon had chosen to sit cross-legged on the ground. "It's only the absence of feathers and the fact that he hasn't rattled some bones in my face that puts it a step above the witch doctor category!"

"Rodney, that is enough!" Teyla sat down on the stool next to him. "You must let J'ksande clean your hand."

"Sorry about this," said John.

J'ksande grinned. "There is no need to apologize! It is fascinating, is it not? How pain and fear affect people in different ways." He reached for Rodney's hand once more and was grudgingly allowed to inspect it.

"Oh, yes, fascinating," said Rodney.

"Indeed!" said J'ksande, ignoring the sarcasm. "You release your feelings through noise and fury, whereas John pushes his down and down, making no sound until the pain is so great that it begins to leak out."

John shuffled and fidgeted. Ronon pondered the implications of J'ksande's comment.

"Oh, well, we all know Sheppard's the stoic, tough guy type!" Rodney winced as J'ksande began cleaning his hand. "Sorry if you prefer your patients more macho!"

"Oh, I did not say it is a good thing. After all, how will your friends know that you need help if you do not cry out in pain?"

John turned away and edged toward the entrance.

Rodney met Ronon's eyes. "Hm. I suppose, in such a case, your friends might just say 'Oh, he's fine!' and go out shopping, leaving you in agony. Speaking of which, ow!"

"It stings, but it will protect!" said J'ksande, smearing a brown paste into Rodney's palm.

"Is it the same remedy you gave John, for the ksatza bug stings?" Teyla enquired.

"No, no, that is much stronger, with ingredients that can be most unsafe if one does not know their ways." He took a clean strip of cloth and began winding it around Rodney's hand. "But it is very effective if applied correctly!"

"Good thing you came," said Ronon. He slipped a small knife from his hair and contemplated his reflection in the blade, blue evening shadows lit now by golden lamplight. "Uh... sorry." He felt eyes upon him and glanced up and then swiftly back down at his knife. "Teyla. Sorry I was mad about the whole... y'know."

"That is alright, Ronon. I should have warned you."

"And Sheppard. Should've checked you were okay."

"Yes, even though you should have been less stoic and actually said you needed help!" said Rodney. "Well, anyway, sorry."

"It's fine," said John, coming back into the pool of lamplight. "No big deal."

J'ksande laughed. "You had better not delay this evening's application of my remedy, then, or your friends will get some idea of how big a deal ksatza bug stings can be! You will not let yourself be distracted by the music and the dancing and the leaping flames of the campfires on your way to your rooms!"

"It won't be as bad as it was before, will it?" There was a note of fear in John's voice.

"No, but already I see your shoulders tense beneath that heavy vest. You can feel the heat building, yes? You cannot hide from one who spends their life relieving others' pain!"

"Pretty sure you increased mine," Rodney mumbled.

"What Rodney means to say is thank you, J'ksande," Teyla said, rising, her hand on Rodney's arm drawing him up with her.

"Oh, yes, thank you for your relatively not too primitive quackery."

"High praise, McKay!" smirked John.

"Credit where credit's due, I suppose!"

"Bet your staff don't hear that too often."

Ronon trailed behind as they left the tent, listening with a smile, to John and Rodney's ongoing flow of affectionate insults. The team threaded their way through the stalls, lit by torch and lantern and small strings of coloured lights, Teyla steering Rodney away from an investigation of their power source. The narrow ways were less crowded and intent bargain-seeking had been replaced by strolling langour in the cool, smoky evening air. Lively groups had settled in open areas, where large campfires were burning and there was music and dancing and storytelling.

"Sheppard, what's in the bag?"

It was a time and a place to live in the bright leaping flame and fleeting song, the smile of a stranger and a story that, perhaps, you'd never hear again. And, when the sun rose, shining, life would move forward, on its inexorable path.

"Donuts! To share? Really?"

A grating squawk came from the shadows around Korokéa's booth and Ronon's fingers tightened around the ridged grip of the knife still in his hand. There was light and laughter in this desert night, but Ronon knew that the even the brightest flame, or sharpest thorn, or the deepest plunge into transient pleasure, could never truly chase the shadows away.

"Ronon! Sheppard's got donuts!"

"Yeah, hurry up before McKay eats them all!"

They had stopped and were waiting for him, their faces limned in firelight; Rodney, his hand cradled to his chest, words spilling in a rapid undertone; Teyla, smiling and carefree, like the girl she had been in this place, long ago. And John, his eyes bright points of light in the darkness, standing for the beacon of hope against the Wraith that was the city of Atlantis. His friends.

"Coming!" said Ronon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of the story? Well, yes, it was meant to be, but, to me, it feels like the characters are in place and the stage is set for more. So, look out for part two! Thank you for reading and reviewing!


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